The shimmering light bounces off the road, blending car bodies into a swirling mirage. A demented Kaleidoscope of trunks and hubcaps, glittering, chrome trim and shocking electric mirror light. Reflections dance like lasers piercing the sky. We are inching forwards. 2.54 cm in the new money. Its trudging slow and the snaking traffic reaches out to the horizon. We are going no place fast. Its baking hot holiday sun cracking the roof paint and searing my optical nerves blind. The car is heavy loaded with people and their stuff. We could be sinking into the road like a melting black river of tar and cars. Who will ever know? “Hey!”, “We’re moving, look!”, says a voice from the backseat. We creep another 3.28984 feet forward; that’s 1 metre in the new money. Klunch!! Oonfp! And dead stop. R*******!!, P*****!!!, What the Hell!?

The driver in front gets out with a face raging thunder. He’s red fit to burst and sweating. I can see his lips moving but can’t hear a word. Windows are tight shut for the A/C. I open the door. The furnace heat blasts in. I must have connected fender to fender (or bumper to bumper for UK readers) It’s a fender bender folks. Time to check the damage. He’s shouting now and closing on me fast. Time to look concerned. It was my fault, right? “Hey, sorry about that. Lets have a look, okay?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, nada, not a scratch. We stand there, hands on hips, macho rulers of the ribbon of road that hopefully leads to holiday Shangri-la. Doing what tough men do – facing off over some insult to another man’s motor vehicle.

The world could end right now. An apocalyptic war of words with fists punching the sky is only seconds away. Only now, there is silent space between us. Nothing to complain about. Nothing to apologise for. Moon faces peer from air-conditioned windows at this roadside spectacle. A gladiator show. Some action, distraction.

“Hey mate”, “I’m packing some fresh made spicy tomato sauce in the car – home made fresh this morning. Big juicy flavour made with chipotle pepper guaranteed to make anyone’s day a better place. Great for burgers or roasted potatoes, fish, chicken, veggies – almost anything. Will ya take a bottle as my apology? And no harm done”

Relief breaks across his face. We don’t have to bear bait or hog trap or fisticuffs the moment. The sky will not fall or the planet break in two. Spicy tomato sauce gives us another way out. “Well,,,, yeah, sure, okay, that’ll be nice”, he says.
The deal is done.

Good job I made loads. The crew loves it.

This glorious spicy sauce is fast and easy to make…

Ingredients:

1 soupspoon of olive oil

2 pieces of garlic

1 small onion

2 sticks of celery

1 teaspoon of ground cumin

1 teaspoon of ground chipotle pepper (half a teaspoon if you prefer less heat)

They call it the graveyard shift or gravy for short. All-nighter at the studio. It’s the cheapest time on the clock. Midnight to 8 in the morning. Just me, the engineer and the click track hour after hour. It can make you crazy. The drum machine playback in the headphones. Like getting boxed in the ears 120, 140, 165 beats per minute. I’m humanising. What’s that? Well, its when they need a human to play percussion over a machine drum line to give it some life. Been giving life all night and now I’m dead. Beating on the kit till my arms fall off and my heads been jack hammered to mush. I’m punchy, I feel drunk. I don’t see straight.
I’m starving hungry too.

The over-bright fluorescent tube lights in the store burn into my head after the cave-like gloom of the recording booth. I’m staggering under the weight of my cymbal bag, percussion box and snare case. Yeah! Thinking maybe my mum was right when she sent me for violin lessons when I was 5 years old.

Wow!, they’ve got everything in here, but what do I want? I grab some red chillies, limes, cilantro and a pack of fresh chicken breasts. I’ve got cooked rice and beans in the fridge at home. Got onions, garlic and olive oil too. Just need a can of those lovely little cherry tomatoes. I bend down to reach them off the bottom shelf then stand up too quickly. The aisle bends and warps. Sudden white noise hissing in my ears. My eyes flicker out of focus and the floor rushes up to meet my teeth. A cascade of cans rains down, clattering and chasing each other across the floor. They sound like wind chimes in a thunderstorm on race day. Vague shapes move and mumble, far away I’m sinking. [Read more…]

On this early evening Buena Vista Social Club were playing loudly from the living room. And I was glad that our music could spill onto the street below, adding to the cocktail of the late summer air. The windows were open, but hesitantly, as this was the end of the season in Glasgow. Bright and brisk, the remnants of warmth are driven away by the night breeze. And with this breeze floats the strongest smells of the day; hot pavements, the coaly remnants of a barbeque down the street, tarmac laid out to dry. Mostly, it smelled fresh. In our flat, Hana and I were cleaning absently, awaiting Laurie with ingredients. After a full day at the shop, cleaning and testing a box of ancient cameras John had uncovered at a car boot sale (a more tiring job than you would expect), I was ready to overdose on food. And as usual Laurie was running late. Now and again my stomach would give a grumble and I would go to the window, looking out hopefully like a dog for his owner. Laurie had promised a tasty quesadilla recipe, staple for him and his brother.

Preparation, in my opinion, is always the most appetising part of a meal. Nothing seems more appealing and untouched than the inside of a vegetable, telling secrets of moisture, colour and scent. Even unpacking the ingredients is mouth-watering.

He was turning red and salty sweat drops started raining down on the table top. Courageously he continued shovelling the red liquid into his mouth. He tried to look normal and wiped the sweat off his face but he couldn’t hide what he was feeling.